


It’s the Rise and the Fall

by kissesfromkrug



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Coming Out, Denial of Feelings, Implied Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, Las Vegas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-04 21:18:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13373250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissesfromkrug/pseuds/kissesfromkrug
Summary: Dylan doesn’t want to wake up. He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to be awake less than he does right now.





	It’s the Rise and the Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Not for profit, fictional; feel free to point out any typos. :)
> 
> Title from my new favorite song "Gold" by Sir Sly, thanks to a blessed Instagram edit of Davo I found.

Dylan doesn’t want to wake up. He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to be awake _less_ than he does right now, but the warm hand on his stomach that does not, in fact, belong to him requires some actual thought.

His head throbs when he tries to shift around, his throat is dry as the desert when he swallows, and the hand presses harder into his stomach. He reaches down to push it off, ending up curiously running his fingers along the veins instead.

No. Focus, Dylan.

He grabs the strangely large hand and tugs it away from his bare skin - never mind who it belongs to, it needs to get off so he can figure out what the fuck is going on. The long fingers curl around Dylan’s and squeeze, and Dylan freezes before he rubs the back of the hand with his thumb almost absentmindedly. He hears a snuffling noise from behind him, and oh yeah. Right. Because hands are usually attached to living bodies.

Dylan stares down at the hand, suddenly aware of a large mass of heat shifting to press up against his bare back, his bare _everything_. Oh shit. Rough lips graze the back of his neck, hot breath giving him shivers - he wouldn’t have been stupid enough to bring a _guy_ back to a hotel, right?

He squirms out of the grasp, and another noise escapes the mouth that had just been pressed to his _neck_ , what the fuck. This is not the way Dylan intended to spend his morning - any of his mid-season mornings, really.

Dylan turns around as he shakily stands up, almost hesitant of who he might see, but the mystery person is covered head to toe in fluffy white sheets. He sighs involuntarily, and the hand suddenly sticks out of the sheets and makes a grabby motion. Maybe they’re not as asleep as Dylan thought.

He debates against speaking, instead taking in his surroundings, thankful that the lights are all off. The best course of action would be to forget that he brought back a random _girl_ , and escape with his clothes intact. That’s the best he can hope for, with a shitty hangover and-

"Dyls?" The voice asks as he’s zipping up his jeans, facing away from the bed, and _shit_ , that’s not a girl. Definitely not. "Come back to bed."

Dylan ignores the too-familiar voice, and a stupidly soft pillow hits him in the back of the head as he picks up his shirt. He fists the fabric as he turns around regretfully, seeing Connor peeking at him from under the blankets. "I’m cold, come back," he whines, obviously a little hungover as he makes a clear space for Dylan to rejoin him. "Why did you put on pants?"

"Um," Dylan says, voice more torn apart than he’d thought. "I have to go?"

"No," Connor decides for him. "Bed." Dylan makes a compromise and sits on the edge of the bed, shirt still in hand.

"I-" Dylan doesn’t even know why he opens his mouth, he’s that unsure of what he wants to say. Connor is watching him expectantly, smiling a little bit, as if he’d be content to lay in bed and watch Dylan all day. Dylan doesn’t exactly know how to feel about that smile. "What happened?" He settles on, pressing his lips together so he doesn’t smile back.

"It’s my birthday," Connor says dopily, reaching out for Dylan. Yeah, he’s still drunk. "Happy birthday to me."

Right. Vegas. Birthday. Hockey.

That’s why they’re here.

"But why am I here?" Dylan rasps as he rubs at his throat. "Like happy birthday, you’re legal in America, but-"

"You’re my best friend, I wanted a best friend birthday," Connor answers, smile slipping a bit. "Don’t you remember?"

Dylan doesn’t. Not much, at least.

There was definitely too much champagne, but not enough to wipe his memory. Dylan remembers Connor plastered to his side in the corner of the lobby of the ridiculously fancy hotel he’d had booked for him, which explains the gold sinks in their bathroom that Dylan remembers being pressed against as-

Woah. No.

"Nothing," Dylan says, shrugging a bit. "Sorry." He tries his hardest to block out the image of Connor kissing him like his life depended on, the sink a hard line against his back as Connor pressed his thigh between Dylan’s. He almost touches his lips to try and chase the wet feeling, but that’d be too much. Too much, even for now.

"Oh." Connor’s expression drops a bit, but he soon recovers as he latches one hand onto Dylan’s upper arm. "Cuddle?"

"I have to go," Dylan repeats. "Like, now."

"No." Connor pulls him horizontal until his back is to Connor’s notably bare chest again. Dylan stiffens, and while he’s nearly 100% sure Connor notices, he doesn’t mention it.

"I’m straight," Dylan announces rather bluntly, swallowing several times to get the ache in his throat to lessen. "So."

"No you’re not," Connor chuckles, kissing the back of his neck.

"I am."

"You wouldn’t have sucked my dick and jerked off on my face if you were straight, _bro_ ," Connor tells him, buzzing his lips at the nape of Dylan’s neck, trying to be funny, but Dylan’s heart flat out stops. At least that explains his sore throat.

"No I didn’t," he scoffs, coughing a bit as he crosses his arms over his chest. "That’s ridiculous."

"Wanna see the hickeys on my thigh?" Connor asks, voice dropping. "You left ‘em nice and dark." And oh  _hell no_ , Dylan doesn’t wanna see, doesn’t want to be reminded of that.

"What the-"

"It’s just proof," Connor adds, and Dylan sits straight up, facing the foot of the bed.

"I’m straight," Dylan says again, instead of something stupid like _I don’t want proof of that_ , but then he goes along and says it anyway because he’s an idiot. "I don’t want proof of that."

Connor frowns, tilting his head curiously, and Dylan side-eyes him as Connor’s eyebrows scrunch together. Dylan takes a moment to realize that Connor’s golden brown hair is sticking up on one side, and that it’s unfortunately adorable. "You’re not lying," he says. Dylan shakes his head, simultaneously trying to get out the picture of Connor’s wide eyes as Dylan stripped his shirt off and threw it aside. He looks over to the bathroom, in front of which he’d found the shirt. _Fuck_ , this is bad.

"I just thought-" Connor starts, then stops. "I’m sorry. I just - I’m gay." Dylan nods to himself, reaching to lightly pat Connor on a nicely sculpted shoulder. Nice.

"Thanks for telling me, buddy."

Connor just smiles weakly up at him, and that’s when Dylan knows it’s really time to go. He ignores Connor’s eyes on something to the right of his neck as he slips his shirt back over his head and stands up. "I’ll just-" Dylan jabs a thumb towards the door, but as Connor slowly sits up Dylan feels his stomach turn over violently. He’s surprised he’s lasted this long, anyway. "Shit, I’m-" He turns to the bathroom and barely makes it to the toilet in time.

This isn’t new territory for them, figuratively holding back the other’s hair and all - there was that one literal time, when Dylan had grown out his hair, but he tries not to remember that - but this is a completely different situation. Dylan doesn’t know whether he’s getting sick from the alcohol or from - _god_ \- the thought of having sex with Connor.

Not that it wouldn’t be _good,_  or that he hasn’t thought about it one too many times while he’s jerking off, it just - shouldn’t happen. Shouldn’t have happened.

"You’re okay," Connor murmurs, rubbing Dylan’s back as he lets out a dry sob, kneeling on the cold tile. "It’ll be okay."

"I’m sorry," Dylan gasps, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand. "I’m sorry. Happy birthday." He knows he looks and smells like shit, so he knows he doesn’t even deserved to be looked at right now. Connor is a blessing, even mildly hungover as he is.

Connor laughs softly and pats Dylan on the head, but it soon turns into running his long fingers through Dylan’s hair as he slumps back against Connor’s still-naked chest. "Thanks, Dyls." Dylan doesn’t respond, waiting until his heartbeat steadies and stomach settles before trying to move again.

Connor watches him carefully as Dylan stands up, wobbly, and makes his way to the door of the hotel room.

"See you," Dylan chokes out after he grabs his wallet and phone from the marble side table. Connor nods and sends him a confusing smile before Dylan turns, opens the door, and stumbles out into the elaborately decorated hallway. The last thing he thinks of before he finds his way to the elevator is that he should’ve caught the view of the skyline from their window.

* * *

Dylan rubs at a dull ache in his collar as he books an immediate flight back to Arizona, wondering why he’d flown out in the first place. Connor shouldn’t have been able to convince him to visit, especially - wait.

Dylan remembers in clear, near-perfect detail going to dinner with Connor after his game against the Coyotes, which Dylan had obviously not participated in. He recalls Connor’s invite - "You should totally come see me in Vegas for a couple days" - and his own acceptance - "Like I’d miss a chance to see you" - and knows exactly what he was thinking at that moment, as Connor beamed brightly across the table. _I wish I could kiss you_.

And therein lies the root of the problem.

* * *

On the plane home, Dylan pulls out his phone and flips the camera to front-facing mode, tugging his shirt collar to the side to see a dark hickey standing out against his pale skin.

"Fuck, Connor," he mumbles, not even thinking as he snaps a picture and sends it to Connor with the caption _wtf is this_.

 _uh a hickey???_ Connor texts back. _:( sorry about that._ Dylan frowns as the next message comes in immediately after the others. _we should talk_. 

They really should, and Dylan knows it. It should be easy, except for the fact that he would rather never speak of it again. He’s only just remembering the feeling of Connor’s thick cock on his tongue and how loud he moaned when Dylan twisted his wrist, hollowed his cheeks. He’d really rather not think of any of that ever in his life if it meant going back to normal with Connor.

Except for the fact that he liked it.

He liked being on his knees for Connor, liked being told what to do and how to do it, completely at Connor’s mercy. _Likes_ it, present tense, which is - bad. Very bad.

Dylan keeps liking things he can’t have. Like a real NHL career.

 _talk later?? im on the plane, boutta nap_ Dylan texts back, and Connor sends back a thumbs up. So things aren’t _weird_ , but they aren’t totally normal, either.

* * *

They don’t talk about It for weeks. Dylan’s pretty sure it’s intentional on both sides.

* * *

Dylan has always hated Valentine’s Day for it’s ridiculous decorations, extravagant gifts on display in shop windows, and the never-ending pink that infects every inch of every part of _everything_.

And - well, this part he doesn’t like to think about much, but - he’s never actually had a real valentine. (That girl he kinda-sorta dated for three months his freshman year absolutely does not count.) And, thinking about his options, there’s only one person - a highly unavailable and illogical choice, of course - who he’d ever want as his Valentine.

It’s no secret, either.

Instead of sitting and stewing in his own depressive, lonely thoughts, Dylan calls the one person he’s always counted on to distract him. Only problem is, the person he’s been pining over and the person he talks to about his issues are one and the same.

Of _course_ it’s Connor. 

He’d never want Dylan like that, is the thing (trust Dylan, he’s done his research). Too many things to fuck up, too much distance, too little time spent anywhere near each other, the stresses of keeping a career (or holding a team together) can get too high - so many things could go wrong that Dylan doesn’t even want to think about them all.

Never mind the fact that the only reason they slept together was the alcohol. Such a mistake.

"There’s something bothering you," Connor says within the first two minutes of the Skype call. "What’s wrong?"

"Wrong? Nothing," Dylan says quickly. "Just hate this holiday."

"Are you sure?" Connor is too perceptive for his own good.

"What’s up with _you_?" Dylan deflects, but he should’ve known Connor won’t take the bait.

"I asked first," Connor says, and he scoots closer to his computer screen. "You could literally tell me you’re gonna hate me forever, but I still wanna know." _It’ll ruin everything_ , Dylan singsongs in his brain, but then- "Please, Dyls." Like Dylan could ever refuse a "please" from Connor McDavid - his goddamn best friend who he’s in love with, holy shit.

"Connor..."

"Tell me or I’m flying to Tucson."

"I may, or may not-" Dylan starts, hands squeezing together in his lap so hard his knuckles turn white. Connor just blinks. "I. Like you?"

"Well, that’s a relief," Connor laughs, short and not too happy at all, and Dylan feels struck through the heart. That’s - no. Not what he meant. "I’m glad to hear that you don’t hate me after all these years."

" _No_ , Connor," Dylan chokes. "You know what I mean. I _like_ you. I have for - a while. Before Vegas, too. So."

Connor’s smile drops off his face as quickly as it had appeared, and Dylan swallows loud enough that Connor can probably hear it. "You’re not lying." It feels like déjà vu to Dylan, almost an exact replay of their Vegas adventure gone wrong. Only this time, Dylan’s trying to convince Connor of the exact opposite thing. "Dylan, what the fuck?"

"I’m sorry I lied to you before, but I’m actually not now," Dylan says, trying to backtrack. "And it’s not even like, a lot, in case you’re worried about that, I just-" It’s a lot. "I do like you, but you don’t have to-"

"Dylan, _what the fuck_?" Connor repeats, louder this time. Dylan feels sick to his stomach. _Ya done fucked up, kid_. "I could’ve been dating you for _how_ long?"

Oh.

"Dyls, I don’t invite just anyone to fucking _Vegas_ and sleep with them continually just to blow them off the moment they suggest they _actually fucking like me_."

"I thought you messed up," Dylan explains half-heartedly. "I thought you just wanted like...a birthday one-off."

"I’m in _love_ with you, like hell I want that," Connor scoffs, and Dylan doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry or pretend to pass out. The next time Dylan looks at him, though, Connor is flat-out terrified. "Do you - is that okay? Please tell me-" He bites down hard on his lip as he watches Dylan.

That’s so much more than okay.

"Yeah - _god_ , yes," Dylan breathes. "That’s so okay."

Connor has never looked more excited in his entire fucking _life_. What an emotional whiplash.

"Are you sure?" He asks again - he can never be too careful, apparently - and Dylan rolls his eyes fondly.

"Yes, Davo, _yes_. Don’t ask me again. Just-"

"I just wish I could kiss you right now," Connor sighs, still keeping his eyes on Dylan’s face as if it’d pain him to look away. Maybe it would, at this point.

Dylan just smiles at him, so wide his face hurts, sticking his tongue in his cheek and making Connor inhale involuntarily. He didn’t mean anything by the motion, but- "Really? That’s what does it for you?" He teases, but Connor’s got this look in his eyes that Dylan won’t refuse.

"Yeah," Connor says in a low voice, one he’d like to hear every day of his life and then some, and Dylan’s grin turns to a knowing smirk. "You wanna?"

"If you’re up to it." Because Connor never backs down from a challenge.

As Connor leans back and slowly strips off his shirt, trying to be a tease, Dylan realizes that, all of a sudden - hey. 

It’ll - they'll turn out okay.

He winks at Connor and shoves down his sweatpants.

**Author's Note:**

> Heh heh I had till February 14th to finish this........ ;)
> 
> It took forever to post this because of some technological glitches...so if there’s any weird-ass mistakes, just tell me. :)


End file.
